Murder Is Come Again by Joan Smith Page B

Coffen at his house, Black, and Weir’s office is just around the corner from Nile Street. She must have told Henry.”
    “When were you speaking to Flora?” Prance asked, and Corinne told him of their visit to the mews and the tourist gift shop. “She had some wilting yellow roses there in a vase.”
    “They must have followed us last night,” Coffen said. “Odd they’d bother snitching wilting flowers.”
    Black sniffed. He was constantly amazed at the ignorance of the aristocracy at how life was lived by the other ninety-nine percent of the population. They’d likely never heard of a mudlark, or knew that the leftovers from their tables were sold out their back doors. “More likely the rat catcher broke up the bundle and was peddling the flowers to street vendors,” he said. “That’s an old racket. Flora didn’t bat an eye when you mentioned them, Lady Luten.”
    “That’s true. Well, let us go and see Weir.”
    Black wasn’t tardy to hop into the curricle and the two carriages were off.
     

Chapter Twelve
     
    They found Weir seated behind his desk, reading the journal. He looked up, astonished to see more people in his office than had ever graced it at one time before. Quality folks, too. Surely there would be some profit in this. “Mr. Pattle,” he said, struggling to his feet as he recognized him. “Is it about selling your house you’ve come to see me?”
    “No, it isn’t,” Pattle said angrily.
    “Ah. And may I inquire why you and your friends are here?” His rheumy eyes slid around the group as he tried to recall if he’d ever seen any of the others before. He recognized Black and nodded at him.
    Luten stepped forward, introduced himself and Lady Luten and Sir Reginald as friends of Mr. Pattle.
    “Perhaps a seat for the lady,” Weir said, smiling at Corinne. Enough rickety chairs were found for them all in an adjoining room which served as kitchen and on rare occasions in the past for a meeting room. “Could I offer you a cup of tea?” he said, when they were seated in a ring around his desk. Having seen the weak brew in his cup and the kitchen it came from during the scramble for chairs, they declined. He then raised an eyebrow at Coffen in a mute request to hear his business.
    The situation had become so complicated Coffen hardly knew where to begin. “Some odd things have been happening since I got Bolger’s house,” he said.
    “Ah, well now. It’s not prime real estate to be sure.”
    “It’s a prime death trap is what it is. The person I had planned to rent it to was killed — murdered.”
    “You can’t mean Mary Scraggs!” Weir exclaimed. “I was just reading of her murder. Oh Mr. Pattle, you didn’t go and rent it to Mary Scraggs! You might as well have given it away. You’d never get a penny out of Mary Scraggs.”
    “That’s beside the point,” Coffen said brusquely. “Someone’s been breaking into the place, and not five minutes ago he took a shot at me. It’s just by the grace of God I’m here to tell you about it. Someone don’t want me or anyone else in that house. Stands to reason there’s something going on, and I expect you could tell me what.”
    Weir just shook his head in wonder. “Oh dear! Shot at! And you think it’s to do with the house?”
    “Of course it is.”
    Corinne gave Luten’s arm a nudge and he said, “As Mr. Pattle is a stranger in town, never been in the house until now, we believe the cause of his problem stems from its former occupant, Mr. Bolger. What was his line of business?”
    Weir shook his head. “Oh dear, oh dear. I daresay you’re right. There’s no blinking the fact that Bolger wasn’t too nice in his business dealings.”
    “And what was his business?” Luten asked again.
    “Why, not to put too fine a point on it, milord, he was what’s known as a stalk.”
    “He means a fence,” Black translated.
    “Just so,” Weir nodded. “He dealt in stolen goods. Jewelry was his preferred line, but he’d been